A Lasting Love

by Mary Tate Engels

  Lost in his virile demands, Loren felt the first tentative tickling of his tongue over her sensitive lips. His probing was a trial, seeking surety of her response. To his delight, Loren opened to meet his quest, accepting the rhythmic force he offered.

  Although young, and somewhat innocent, Loren was certainly aware of her own feminine responses to Reid's sensuous masculinity. And she wasn't ashamed to let him know. She met his probing with her own warm tongue, matching his motions with bold actions of her own.

  Instinctively his hands clasped her hips, thrusting her hips to his, revealing his male strength and passion. The sensation was too much for Loren and, although she had responded quite eagerly until now, the raw male form propelled against her so boldly was more than she could bear.

  "Oh, Reid, no," she breathed, her blue eyes wide and full of a million expressions.

  His hands edged up her back, caressing, stroking, persuading her in a nonthreatening way. Reid wanted her desperately tonight and knew by her responses that she wanted him too. However, he sensed her inexperience. One minute she was a wild temptress eliciting his excitement, the next she was a wide-eyed lamb, wanting him, yet not quite trusting.

  "Loren . .. Loren, you're so tempting ... so beautiful," he groaned.

  In response, Loren's hands slid inside his jacket to stroke his firm chest, then around his ribs to clutch the taut muscles of his back. "Reid, you are the most exciting man I've ever met. I can't believe what's happening to me . . ." she breathed. His hand slid around to cup her breasts, sending new, uninhibited sensations coursing through her.

  "Loren, mi querida, you know you want me. Don't deny it. Say yes ... I must have you," he pleaded hoarsely, his thumb amusing her nipple.

  Say yes? Suddenly Loren was hesitant. "I ... I don't know . . . it's too soon, Reid. It's crazy." Her voice was a whisper, for inside herself, Loren knew what she was leading him to . . . agreeing to. And she couldn't believe her own sounds.

  Reid had never shifted away from her, and Loren could still feel the swell of his masculinity against her. "Loren, darling . . ." His voice was ragged. "I can make it special for you. For both of us. You are everything I need in a woman—beautiful, smart, responsive to me and only me . . ."

  She tried to move away. "And . . . inexperienced . . ."

  He nibbled at her ear. "At least you're honest about it."

  "I want our relationship to be honest. And I don't want it to begin too quickly and end after tonight."

  "Oh, God, no," he murmured against her neck, assured that he would have her tonight.

  "Do you promise? Reid . . ." She was serious.

  He looked deep into her blue eyes and answered fervently, "I promise, Loren. It won't end . . . ever. I love you."

  His bold claim took her by surprise. "This is insane, Reid. Too soon for you, for us to feel anything like love. I think I'm in a whirlwind."

  He reached down and picked her up in his strong arms and walked slowly up the stairs to her bedroom. "We're in a whirlwind together, Loren. And that's what makes this attraction between us so very special. It was immediate. We're drawn together, Loren. We can't deny it, so why try to fight it? Let's enjoy it . . . and each other."

  Her bedroom was dark, but outlines of furniture were visible as their eyes became accustomed to the dimness. He stood her in the middle of the room, awkwardly fumbling with the million unwieldy pearl buttons that divided the front of her antique dress. When they were finally undone, he peeled the fabric back from her bodice and over her shoulders as if he were unwrapping a package. She wore a lacy pink-and-beige-silk teddy, and his fingers clutched at it, scooting it down over her curves.

  Loren stood before him unashamed and proud of her body. Her breasts were two creamy mounds, naturally well-formed and uplifted, peaked with strawberry tips, firm and ready for the picking. Her hips flared ever so slightly from her slim waist. They blended into straight, compact thighs. It was those thighs he touched, unable to keep his hands off her any longer. He scanned her entire body length with his hands, aware of the ripple of desire that shivered over her. As his hands cupped her enticing breasts, she reached for him.

  "Now you," she ordered in a hoarse whisper.

  Eager to comply, to have her, Reid dropped his jacket beside her heirloom dress. While his hands tore at the stubbornly knotted tie, Loren began on the row of shirt buttons. By the time she had finished, he had unzipped his slacks, which also joined the growing heap of clothes at their feet. Another quick movement and he stood before her completely nude, aroused, and impatient to take her in his arms.

  Almost shyly she touched him, running curious hands over his rocklike muscles, combing through the sprinkling of hair that curled on his chest and trailed to his flat belly. When he could stand no more, he wrapped her in his arms, burying his face against her soft breasts.

  He lowered her gently to the bed, murmuring promises of love forever. His skill at lovemaking convinced Loren that Reid was no novice. The thought reassured her, and she relinquished herself to his care. She believed his passionate promises because she wanted to, and trusted his erotic leadership because it worked. She found her tightly coiled body relaxing . . . and enjoying.

  "My sweet, beautiful Loren," he murmured as his hands stroked and excited her, teaching her. His lips encircled each rosy tip, finally bringing her urgently to arch against him, begging for fulfillment. He paused briefly for the safety of a condom.

  Their coming together was as passion-filled as their brief, magnetic acquaintance had been. The flash of lightning that consumed them both feverishly brought forth a sudden feminine cry, then soft moans of pleasure. And, in the darkness, low masculine rumblings.

  Reid comforted her, repeating gentle words of love and cuddling her against his chest. She had given herself to him completely and trustingly, with no regrets. She had been fulfilled as a woman, by the man she loved. And hadn't he said he loved her too?

  She ran her fingernails over his chest. "Did you know that a sea captain once owned this house?"

  He nuzzled her neck. "Wonder if he and his wife made love in this room."

  She laughed. "I'm sure somebody did. Whether it was the captain . . . who knows?"

  "What happened to him?"

  "Well, foreign soldiers who were taken prisoner were forced to lay these brick sidewalks that we have. And one of them escaped and hid out in the attic of this house while the captain was off to sea. When the soldier was discovered by the captain's wife, she just couldn't turn him in. Eventually they were caught in the captive/captor syndrome. And she gave in to his wicked ways. . . ."

  "Wicked? The poor fellow was starved for affection and a woman's gentle touch." His laughter rumbled in the darkness.

  "Like this?" Loren giggled and ran her hand tauntingly over him. "I always wondered how they communicated, though, if she spoke only English and he spoke only German."

  Reid's leg draped over hers. "Oh, that's easy. They spoke the universal language of passion!"

  "Passion?" She laughed, her voice tinkling in the quiet. “You mean love?”

  "Um-hum, love, passion, like this .. . and this . . . and this. Soon she got his message. And they were conversing like crazy."

  "Brilliant." she mused, then cuddled against him like a kitten. "I think they fell madly in love, and when the war was over, they escaped together."

  "What a romantic you are, Loren." His hands caressed her tenderly.

  She nibbled lightly on his neck. "Incurable."

  "Then you like my universal language of passion?"

  "Of course," she murmured low. "But the universal language is love."

  "Love leads to passion, mi amor, and we have a tradition to follow. Hold me close. ..."

  They conversed in their own special language, and, as Reid promised, their love didn't end that night. Nor in a week or a month. It continued long enough for them to make love in the Texas bluebonnets, delight in Washington's cherry blossoms, walk along the sandy beach off the coast of
South Carolina, and embrace the spectacular autumn at Valley Forge.

  Yet, when the winter winds whipped across the Potomac, they nipped mercilessly at Loren's solitary figure. She was alone and Reid was gone from her life.

  Chapter Three

  Loren gazed around the ancient room filled with heavy wooden furniture as they made their way to a table for two near a window. She could never enter the Seaport Inn without thinking of him. They had spent many happy hours here. . . years ago.

  "Ah, this is perfect. Excellent view of the Potomac, isn't it, darling?" He helped her with her chair. "See what you've missed by refusing to come here?"

  "Yes, it's lovely, Mark." How could she tell him that whenever she returned to this place her feelings were so strong, so overwhelmingly awful, she could almost reach out and touch them. And tonight was no exception. There was an eerie, almost tangible feeling in the air. Loren shivered and looked out over the Potomac River to the array of lights from Washington.

  "Cold, darling? Would you like Chablis? Loren?"

  She nodded absently. "Chablis sounds fine."

  They toasted their impending wedding and exchanged small talk, but mostly spent the time gazing out the window admiring the view on the Potomac. A foghorn penetrated the silence between them, and Loren jerked her head up, startled, the sound recreating a memory.

  They sipped the oyster stew, and Loren smiled to herself as she pushed "those things" around in the bowl, remembering Reid’s dislike of seafood and the subsequent teasing. Oh, dear God, I've got to stop this. She gulped her wine and immediately a white-coated waiter appeared to refill her glass. She turned her gaze across the room, waiting.

  And there . . . there he was. Their eyes locked for a long second that seemed like a lifetime before she turned away. Her thoughts were wild and jumbled as her blood pumped furiously through her veins. I must be seeing things. I thought it was him. But, it just couldn't be. Not after all this time. Six years of trying to forget. And now I think I see him again. How much wine did I have? Only one glass? Why do I feel so crazy?

  With a shaky hand she lifted the glass to her lips and drank boldly. Then her eyes, drawn like a magnet, sought that same table where he sat with two other men. His profile was in her line of vision now, and she examined the man carefully, curiously, oh, God ... afraid.

  This man was different, mature, but somehow the same. Dark, unruly hair, penetrating, almost black eyes, his squared shoulders were crammed into a suede jacket, and he looked as if he would like to slip out of his clothes at any minute. The man's appearance was very rugged. And those boots. The same godawful scuffy cowboy boots. The mustache was what made his face look different. The man turned and watched her again, his eyes catching hers. And she knew. She knew! It was all Loren could do to keep from spilling her wine. With jerky motions she set it on the table and scooted her chair back.

  "Excuse me, please, Mark."

  "Certainly, darling. Are you all right? You look a bit pale."

  She nodded and tried to smile. "I'll be right back." Loren carefully avoided the dark stare from across the room as she made her way quickly to the ladies' room.

  Once inside, she slumped against the wall, taking deep, gulping breaths to try and calm her heaving stomach.

  A patron was drying her hands. "Are you all right?"

  Loren nodded mutely, and the woman left.

  In the quiet, sanitarily fragrant room Loren began to laugh. Hysterically, wildly, incoherently, even to herself, until the laughter dissolved into tears that flowed down both cheeks. She grabbed a paper towel and wet it, dabbing at the smeared mascara under her eyes. She gaped at her reflection. Pale cheeked, red-eyed, stricken, she looked terrible. Taking her time, Loren repaired her makeup, hoping the redness around her eyes would soon go away.

  Could that man actually be Reid? Reid. But he was, and she knew it. What was he doing here, so far away from Arizona? And why would he come here, to this particular restaurant, of all the fabulous places to dine in D.C.? Why, for that matter, did she and Mark come here tonight? She wished a thousand times over she had never agreed to it!

  Taking a deep breath, Loren smoothed her skirt and straightened her blazer. She still wore her working clothes, the tailored suit, so chic, yet businesslike. She was in control and could face Mark now.

  Stepping out into the dark hallway that led to the ladies' room, Loren blinked in the dimmed light. A hand shot out and grasped her wrist, pulling her against a solid male body. Alarmed, she prepared to scream, but her throat closed and prevented any sound but his voice.

  "Loren, Loren—"

  She gazed up, very close to the man's face. Reid Mecina!

  Loren gasped audibly, then, with more composure than she could ever dream possible, muttered, "Excuse me, please." She tried to move away from him.

  But his hand did not loosen its grip. "Loren. Loren, thank God, it's you. I wasn't sure for a minute."

  Frantically she looked into his familiar eyes, the eyes of an intimate stranger. "Please, leave me alone," she begged.

  Anguish instantly shot across his face. "I can't. Now that I know it's really you, Loren, I must talk to you."

  "No! Please, Reid, don't do this to me."

  His voice was tight. "Loren, I don't understand. Do you mean that you don't want to see me? Don't you have any feelings for us? I must know how you are... what you're doing."

  Loren finally jerked her arm free from his firm grasp. "For all you care, I could be dead by now. Will you please move so I can pass?"

  "I want to see you again, Loren. Do you still live on Prince?"

  She turned her head away, trying not to give him any information . . . trying not to care.

  His voice was a low rumble, so familiar yet so distant. "Do you still live in the sea captain's house where the Hessian soldier made love to the captain's wife? The house where we made love, Loren? Surely you haven't forgotten."

  Unable to avoid his gaze, Loren turned back to Reid's sad eyes. "I haven't forgotten," she whispered hoarsely.

  "Can I see you there?"

  For some unknown, uncontrollable reason, she nodded. Her head moved of its own accord, imperceptibly, yet positively. No words were spoken between them for long seconds as each was caught in the magic of the attraction that still existed, after all the years that had passed. In her mind Loren knew she shouldn't do this . . . knew she was betraying herself. Again. But she couldn't help it. She had to see him again too. Just this once.

  Reid's hand touched her shoulder, and the warmth flooded through her, electrifying her senses. "I don't want to disturb your evening any more than I already have, so please return to your table. I won't interrupt and ask for an introduction. I'm afraid I might punch the man in the nose."

  She smiled for the first time since seeing him, responding to his once familiar banter.

  "I have to see you alone, Loren. When can I come?"

  She shrugged, her eyes saying a million things.

  "Tonight?"

  Loren nodded. "Give me a little time." Why? Why was she doing this to herself?

  "See you later." His promise was a whisper as Loren slipped away from his overwhelming presence. She stumbled back to the table where Mark sat, disturbed because she had been gone so long.

  "I almost sent the waitress in to see if you were all right."

  "Sorry, Mark. I—I ran into an old . . . friend."

  "How nice," he remarked indifferently.

  Loren took a sip of her wine, hoping it would calm her jagged nerves. But her hand shook so that she had to steady it on the table.

  Mark motioned toward her plate. "Try your crab imperial before it gets cold, dear."

  Loren attempted to eat, but the creamy fare knotted in her stomach with every bite. So she pushed it idly around on her plate until Mark had finished his dinner. Every time she glanced up and across the room, Reid's eyes were on her. Totally unnerved by his presence, as well as his promise to see her later, Loren claimed that she didn't feel wel
l and was ready to leave.

  Miffed by her strange behavior and abrupt termination of their very elegant dinner, Mark whisked her home in a matter of minutes. He jammed the key into the lock and stood aside for her to enter before him.

  But Loren placed her hand on his arm and said, "Don't come in with me tonight, Mark. I don't feel very . . . sociable."

  "Loren, are you sick?" Irritation was obvious in his tone.

  She shook her head. "It's just a headache. I have a lot on my mind. It's . . . it's going to be tough next week. I need to do some work this weekend."

  “You know I don’t like that, working on weekends.” His hazel eyes snapped at her. "You and those damn liberal cases. There's always one that has you over a barrel. When are you going to get smart and work for some decent clients?"

  Instantly Loren bristled. "These are decent clients. Just because they don't have the money yours do—"

  "Oh, Loren, you know what I mean. Some of these women seem to leave themselves open for the problems they have. They keep going back to the same man who beats them up month after month. Or return to the jackass who chased every skirt he saw. What do they expect?"

  "Expect? Like anyone else, Mark, they expect decency."

  "Oh, hell. They just keep going back—and they deserve what they get."

  Loren was shaking with anger. "There's no excuse for what some of my clients have endured."

  His hands grasped her forearms. "I'm not offering excuses. I'm trying to get you to see how futile your job is. These women ask for trouble, and you spend all your time bailing them out—for a pittance."